


Once More (Gather Your Strength To Stand)

by rightsidethru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Broken Team, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil War Team Iron Man, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Master of Death, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Not A Fix-It, Not Steve Friendly, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pro Team Iron Man, Siberia, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Deserves Better, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Is A Better Man Than All Of Us, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, not team Cap friendly, post-CA: CW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 03:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Tony is tired and alone and hoping that this is the last time he'll open his eyes after being left behind in Siberia.The Master of Death isn't yet ready to allow that to happen, however.





	Once More (Gather Your Strength To Stand)

**Author's Note:**

> Please be warned: I did tag for it, but Tony is 100% not in a good place mentally for pretty much a majority/entirety of this story. He's suicidal and hoping to die from the cold and his injuries. _That doesn't happen_ , but the warning needs to be in place in case of reader's triggers. Remember: your mental health is important, so proceed with caution.
> 
> Other than that, I hope that you enjoy...? I definitely was tearing up while writing certain portions, so there's that. :\
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos/comments = <3
> 
> *
> 
> http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/

_I'm not dead just floating_  
_Right between the ink of your tattoo_  
_In the belly of the beast we turned into_  
_I'm not scared just changing_  
_Right beyond the cigarette and the devilish smile_  
_You're my crack of sunlight_  
“I’m Not Dead” – P!nk

**

“Stark… Stark, you need to get up.”

++

He was tired. So fucking tired.

He was tired of getting back up, he was tired of fighting, he was tired of constantly-- _constantly_ \--putting himself out there, of giving _everything_ of himself to so-called team, to the world, that wasn’t willing to give anything back. He’d been drained dry long ago, had dug down to the dregs of his soul to even get this fair—but he was made of brittle iron and rust and there was nothing left of himself to give.

_He was tired._

The exhaustion ran soul-deep, bone-deep, tired in body and mind and heart: a heart that was already damaged beyond complete repair, broken but still so willing to keep on beating if it meant that others could be saved.

\--the heart that finally broke, though, the moment that Rogers ( _friend friend – never a friend_ ) admitted his soul-crushing truth. The heart had already taken one too many hits from the first time that he could remember; at some point, he figured… what was the point of piecing it back together again?

He was an engineer. An inventor. A fixer of things.

But eventually he had learned that there was always a point where you threw in the towel.

He was done.

He was tired.

He didn’t want to open his eyes anymore.

++

The cold was an encompassing sort of force, unrelenting and unforgiving. 

Things came to Tony in bits and pieces: he could remember the clang of metal on concrete as Rogers dropped his shield, giving up the title of Captain America for his friend ( _not me not me – one more abandonment to accept and protect myself against_ ); he could remember watching his breath turn to a misty sort of fog, silver-tinged bubble surrounding his mouth with each and every exhale; he could remember the whine of an engine starting, the roar of its take off, the dark, bitter thought, “Fucker left me behind in a dead suit.”; he could remember watching as his blood iced over, droplets hardening into stalactites that never quite reached the floor below.

He remembered how his skin burned as warm breath fanned over lips and chin and cheeks.

He remembered how the metal of his suit slowly became his metal coffin as night slipped closer and closer, horizon darkening into shades of twilight, purple tinging the sky like a weeks-old bruise.

He remembered trying to get up, trying to fight one last time: remembered his left arm giving out beneath him as the injuries Wanda dealt him at the airport in Germany finally brought themselves to his attention with adrenaline leaving his body hours before.

He remembered pain, remembered agony.

He remembered the knife-to-the-ribs feeling of betrayal.

( _You were supposed to be family, just like Obie. Why is it that family always hurts you the most?_ )

He remembered the rage-filled screams, the foul curses that echoed within the open-air bunker.

More than anything, though, he remembered the exhaustion.

He remembered giving up.

++

“Stark. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go.”

++

The suit was dead.

The arc reactor had been too cleanly sliced in half—there was no way to revive it, to reconnect circuits, to jump start it in any way to call out for help to FRIDAY or the Vision. Moreso than that, however, the suit was dead weight. Thousands of pounds of metal—his engineering contribution to the world—pressed down upon already painful and previously gained injuries. There was no way to get the full leverage needed to manually begin releasing the locks that were scattered all over the suit.

Even besides that, this particular Mark had been designed with the idea that there would always been a teammate near to get him free. It was a sign of trust that had originally made him hesitate in incorporating into the design, something fearful and buried deep within him begging him to _not_ put in the weakness—but trust was a heady drug, muddling his thoughts more thoroughly than any ounce of alcohol had ever done. So he had ignored that voice of caution, of distrust, and had ordered FRIDAY to go ahead with the design.

He should have known better.

( _Family always hurts you._ )

He was going to die in the suit, skin frozen to the metal innards, frostbite turning fingers and toes and nose black and dead long before his heart stopped beating: he was already lying in his coffin, half delirious with grief and pain and the desire to sleep and never open his eyes again: to forget, to let go, to finally refuse to be held _accountable_ because what was the point if all that ever happened was that he was punished for it, actions past, present, and future always held against him?

_Iron Man – yes; Tony Stark – not recommended._

Here, now, in this metal coffin of his:

_He was Iron Man._

++

“ _Stark, open your eyes!_ You’re still needed.”

++

He remembered closing his eyes, hoping that it would be the last time he did so.

He remembered wanting to die.

( _Just let me sleep, darkness washing over until all that’s left is oblivion. I don’t fucking care anymore._ )

++

“ **WAKE UP!** ”

++

The cold was always the first thing that Tony noticed, and—this time—there was no difference in that, as well. The cold burned and numbed and made the air hard to breathe. Distantly, thoughts sluggish and almost outside of his own mind, the engineer wished that the cold had frozen his lungs, stopping the rise and fall of his chest: it would have been peaceful, a gentler sort of death than he was previously guaranteed.

Everything hurt.

The feeling of helplessness, of betrayal, and loss swept over him then, reminding the dark-eyed man of the tsunami of grief that he had managed to hold at bay off and on as the hours—days? had it been days yet?—trickled on by, whiling into a numb sort of nothingness that echoed with the depression that had grayed out his soul in December 1991.

There was no point in choking back the sob or the tears that followed, thick enough to collect in the silver-touched hair at Tony’s temples, icing over almost immediately until scalp and cheeks stung from the heat of his tears and then, eventually, went numb and glistening-wet, icing to freeze away the last portions of himself that still _cared_.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” a voice murmured from above even as fingers gently sifted through the engineer’s hair, breaking apart the ice to cup over the back of Tony’s head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go just yet. You’re still needed.”

The effort was a Herculean one, almost impossible as it stood before him, but Tony slowly managed to open his eyes to meet a bright green gaze above him, framed by thick, ugly glasses frames, and a riot of ebon-dark hair. The inventor had almost immediately thought of Loki—Loki had somehow managed to track him down, had cornered Tony while he was vulnerable and hurting—but the understanding, careful kindness in those forest-bright eyes was nothing like what Tony remembered seeing from the demi-god.

His breath shuddered out, catching in his chest-- _he was so cold_ \--and that gentle hand tightened in warning against his scalp.

“It’s hard, I know. _I know._ It feels like a relief, like absolution—like a weight has been shifted from your shoulders because it’s no longer up to you. It’s become someone else’s problem, someone else’s responsibility. But I can’t let you go yet. It’s not your time; this isn’t where you’re supposed to die. And I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, I understand, it’s hard, it’s so bloody hard, _I know_ —but you need to get up. You need to fight again. You’re needed and necessary, Tony Stark: both for your loved ones and for this world.”

“…I can’t…” Tony whispered, eyes closing beneath furrowed brows, _hating_ this stranger for the words that he was speaking.

“ _You must_ ,” the dark-haired man ordered, voice gentle and implacably cruel in its refusal to allow Tony to—let go. To stop. The words felt like electricity over his skin, down the engineer’s spine: sharp and biting, and Tony inhaled in a gasp as his eyes shot open once again. Voice gentler than previous, the stranger repeated: “You must, Tony Stark.”

“Why…? Why won’t you let me…?” the older man gasped out, words hitching as they rose, rougher than a raven’s cry, from his throat. “I just. I just want… _Let me_ \--“

The kindness was encompassing now, a mother’s soothing touch or the warm kiss of the sun upon a face, and the smile that was offered to Tony was crooked, lopsided and flavored with self-directed derision. “Because I’m the Master of Death, and I say _no_. Because if you die here and now, give up and close your eyes and never open them again, so too does the universe. You know what’s coming. I know you’re tired; I know that you wish someone else would pick up the responsibilities that you’ve been carrying for so long—but you’re still the linchpin in the fight ahead. You’re still needed.”

“Not fair,” Tony whispered, expression screwing up, tightening against the fight _not to cry_.

“I know it’s not. But neither life nor death are fair, and I’m denying you entry to one. It’s time to get up, Tony.”

It was so hard to dig down, to find whatever strength he had left: so little remaining, practically nothing—just a handful of dirt and sand that tasted of Afghanistan against the back of his throat. The hourglass had finally run out; how was he expected to give even more after this…?

There was _nothing_.

 _He_ was nothing.

But Tony still gathered together what little strength—what little courage, determination, fortitude—that remained after this latest betrayal, and took a shuddering breath before once more opening his dark gaze. “If you’re expecting me to get up, you’re going to have to help get me out of this suit,” he rasped, voice trembling and skirting the edge of broken—but steadier, too, with each and every word.

“I can do that,” the stranger agreed, eyes so very, very kind, and Tony hated him for that understanding.

\-- _It’s the least that I could do_ , went unsaid but still understood between the two men.—

“So what’s your name?” the engineer asked as they both worked on flipping the releases that would finally allow the suit to uncurl from around him, withdrawing like a caterpillar’s cocoon and allowing Tony to _breathe_ again, freezing and broken and human but no longer _Iron Man_ , and perhaps that was the important thing right now to remember.

“Harry. Just Harry,” the green-eyed man answered as the last release snapped into place, allowing Tony to pull himself up and out of the suit; the inventor turned to offer up a comment to ‘Harry. Just Harry.,’ though anything he might have said stilled upon his tongue as he saw that there was nobody else there. Tony was alone.

He covered his face and gave a broken little laugh, ugly and harsh and still filled with so much rage and hate—then staggered upright ( _because he was an engineer before anything else and things still needed fixing_ ) and went in search of pieces of machinery he could cobble together to create some sort of radio to send out an SOS signal to either FRIDAY or the Vision.

(The memory of that green gaze still followed him, haunting and knowing.)

::fin::


End file.
